


Prima

by Eilinelithil



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: A Monthly Rumbelling April 2020 (Once Upon a Time), Angst, Crimes & Criminals, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hyperion Heights (Once Upon a Time), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Organized Crime, Woven Beauty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23931160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilinelithil/pseuds/Eilinelithil
Summary: Detectives Weaver and Rogers stumble upon a crime at a local theater where they meet the Prima Ballerina, Anabelle French in the process of apparently committing agravated assault with a deadly weapon, but as Weaver investigates, he discovers there is far more to it than a simple crime, and he is forced to run to a place of safety with his suspect in tow.Written for the April, A Monthly Rumbelling - Mood Board.
Relationships: Belle/Detective Weaver
Comments: 18
Kudos: 28





	Prima

“Look,” Weaver sighed and hurried to keep up with his partner, “I don’t know why you’re getting so bent out of shape. It’s not as if it meant anything is it, you said yourself—”

Whatever Detective Weaver might have been about to say was cut off by the sound of single gunshot. Loud enough to be close, but not out in the open. On instinct he reached for his weapon and saw that Rogers had done the same, both of them looking around for the origin of the sound. They were rewarded by a second gunshot, and alert to it now, both men turned in the direction of the local theater.

“Front entrance,” Weaver ordered, already heading to the alley way that he knew led to the stage door. “And call it in.”

He picked up the pace, hurrying down the alley, already watching as half-dressed dancers were spilling out of a plain brown door. He pushed his way through, jacket pulled back to reveal the badge clipped to his belt, even so, he still announced himself to the stage door keeper as he struggled against the tide of frightened performers.

“Seatle PD.”

“It… it’s Miss Belle,” the man stammered. “She’s lost her mind. Gone _mad!_ ”

“Where?” he snapped, not caring for politeness.

“Her dressing room is that way,” the door keeper pointed along the hallway to the left.

He nodded, spotting Rogers as his partner came in the other way, and he signaled to the other man the direction he should take. Rogers took off before anything could be said, and Weaver followed after him, already starting to get an uncomfortable feeling of wrongness in his gut even before he had set eyes on the supposed _crime scene_.

He barely caught sight of the word, ‘Prima,’ before Detective Rogers kicked open the door so hard he almost took it from its hinges.

“Seatle PD! Drop the weapon!” Rogers’ presence and his words were rewarded with a scream, and as he drew closer, Weaver heard, the rattle of a weapon. “I said, drop it!”

He picked up his pace a little, finally drawing level with the door, and before going through, took in everything he could see. A young - and, he noted, incredibly beautiful - woman was standing at one side of the room. Obviously a dancer, probably the shoes that gave it away, she was in a close fitting costume and already made up for the stage. She had a gun; was holding it, inexpertly, in both hands, and shifting her aim - if it could be called that - between Rogers, and a man at the other side of the room. She was clearly scared. Her hands were shaking, and the safety was off; a terrible combination.

The man that she had presumably shot at, twice, seemed entirely unharmed. Another dancer, he stood maybe six feet tall, was also dressed in his dance gear which was obscenely tight in Weaver’s opinion. His hair short, but not so close cropped as to hide the fact that it was slightly out of place. He’d seen enough, and the entire situation smelled entirely bent.

“I’m warning you—” Rogers’ began, but Weaver cut him off.

“No, no,” he said almost sing song, softly. “You don’t want to do that.” He stepped deliberately between Rogers, who had shifted closer to the man, and the woman with the gun. “I’m sure we can work this all out.”

“Weaver, what the _hell_ are you doing?” Rogers protested, his aim disrupted as Weaver had intended.

“I got this,” he answered, without taking his eyes off the woman who had now shifted her gun to point in _his_ general direction. For the moment he followed protocol and kept his own weapon raised. “Why don’t you take our friend there out into another room; get his statement.”

“I’ll give you a fucking statement,” the man spat, his voice heavily accented, Russian, or else Eastern European, Weaver guessed. “She tried to shoot me. Bitch is crazy!”

The woman let out a snarling scream, shifting her aim only barely, and pulled the trigger again. From the corner of his eye, Weaver saw Rogers and the other man duck, but he kept his eyes fixed on the woman, flinching only slightly when he felt the hot wind of the bullet as it passed his head. She missed again, and the recoil on the gun made her stumble backwards, before she leveled her gun off again.

He didn’t want Rogers doing anything stupid, so he said, “Get him _out_ of here, Rogers, I won’t tell you again,” and moved as Rogers complied, keeping himself between his partner and the woman with the gun.

“Let’s shut this door, shall we?” he crooned once he was alone with the woman. “Have a little talk. See what’s got you so wound up, hmm?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer, just reached out with his free hand, and pulled the door closed; couldn’t latch it, of course, thanks to his partner, but closed was better than nothing. It gave the two of them a little bit of peace.

“There, that’s better,” he said softly.

“You… you can’t let him go,” she said, her voice as tight and shaky as her hands, another accent… Australian? It made him frown, momentarily as a half remembered itch niggled at him deep inside.

“Don’t worry about him,” he answered. “Listen, pointing guns at each other is not the best way to have a conversation, right? Why don’t we just - both of us - put our guns down?”

She shook her head. “Can’t,” she said.

“All right,” he said, “You’re scared. I get that. Tell you what. I’ll go first.” He slowly lowered his weapon, flipping on the safety as he did, before slipping it back into its holster before spreading his arms wide. “There,” he said. “Mind if I take off my jacket? Little bit warm in here.”

She didn’t answer him, just kept her wide, shining blue eyes fixed on his as he slipped his jacket off and tossed it onto a nearby chair. All slowly, carefully.

“N-n-name?” she stammered.

“Weaver,” he answered. “How about you?”

“Anabelle… French,” she answered.

“Now, see, we know each other,” he gave her a careful smile, “Much better than all the screaming and yelling, don’t you think? She barely shrugged. “Okay,” he said, “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

She shook her head.

“No one’s gonna hurt you, I promise. You have my word,” he said. “All you need to do is give me the gun, and tell me what happened.”

He took a slow step forward and reached toward her with one hand, but froze as she jerked the gun, not actually expecting that she’d shoot him, more like worried that with the way she was, the gun would accidentally go off in her hands. She was terrified.

“I get it,” he told her. “Not so close. Thing is, Miss French, I can’t help you while you’re pointing that gun at me. I want to be able to help you.”

“He… I… they…”

“Easy,” he sang softly, “Just… gimme the gun, and we can talk.”

He took a step closer, holding out a hand again, and this time she didn’t react. He kept his eyes fixed on hers; took another step and watched as the cobalt blue of her eyes filled with tears, and her grip on the gun loosened.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured as his hand closed over the top of the weapon and his thumb found the safety, flipping it on before lifting the gun from her hands, just in case she changed her mind. He set it down on the nearby dressing table, as he stepped forward again, unsurprised when she threw herself against his chest, trembling as though an earthquake had hit before she burst into tears.

Instinctively, he held her, his arms wrapped tightly around her, tucking her under his chin. He knew he shouldn’t. He didn’t care. She needed it and since when had he bothered about the rules anyway? There was more _to_ this and it didn’t take a genius to work it out.

“It’s going to be okay,” he told her, “but you’re going to have to trust me.”

He felt her nod against his chest, then after a moment, reached behind him with one hand for his cuffs, and taking her hands gently from his chest, turned her around and slipped them onto her wrists.

“Anabelle French, I am arresting you for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present before, and during questioning, now and in the future. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. If you decide to answer questions now _without_ an attorney, you may still request one at any time, and stop answering questions until an attorney is present.” He didn’t usually bother with Mirandizing the lowlifes he usually arrested, just palmed them off on the uniforms and let them do it for him. This was different. _She_ was different. He was going to make this right for her. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He nodded and offered her an almost apologetic smile, then added, “Knowing and understanding your rights as I have explained them to you, are you willing to answer my questions without an attorney present?”

She looked up at him then, her eyes meeting his. “You,” she said barely above the whisper from before. “I’ll talk to _you_.”

He nodded then, and picked up his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, then slipping her gun into the back of his belt, he almost gently led her out of the room, and out toward the stage door.

It was a throng of chaos out there. Rogers was standing beside the man his prisoner had been threatening with the gun, and a few uniformed officers were milling around in the entrance way, with several more outside standing with their thumbs up their arses, doing fuck all to keep the small crowd out of the alley way.

Keeping a hand securely on Miss French’s arm he beckoned to one of the uniformed officers and when he had his attention, ordered, “You, get out there and help those other tossers get the members of the public out of this alley. Got it?”

“Sir,” he said and nodded in answer. Weaver knew the look on his face, it was the one that told him there were some on the force that understood when to dick around, and when to do what they were told and was gratified to see that he was right as the crowd began to clear.

He beckoned to a second officer and told him, “I want CSU in that room collecting evidence like… yesterday. You got it?”

“Detective,” the man confirmed, and he was about to head out with his suspect when he felt Rogers’ hand drop onto his shoulder.

“What’s going on, Weaver?” the man asked.

“You get his statement?” Weaver ask in response.

“Yes, but—”

“Then give him your card and send him home,” he interrupted, “Tell him we’ll be in touch.”

Trusting that Rogers would do as he was told, Weaver turned, calling the other uniformed officer over, while at the same time turning to Miss French he said, “Go with this officer. It’s all right.”

The officer apparently guessed what the detective was about to ask of him, and slipped his hand under the prisoner’s arm. She stiffened, and winced, even as Weaver said, “Take her down to the precinct and put her in an interview room. I want her seen by the medics and—”

“No!” Anabelle French suddenly started to fight going with the other officer, and Weaver had to break from giving his instructions and take her by the upper arms, leaning down to catch her eyes. “It’s all right,” he repeated. “I’ll be right behind you.”

It looked as though she was about to acquiesce, when she suddenly stiffened again and began to back away a step, almost pulling from Weaver’s grasp. It wasn’t until he _felt_ the presence of someone at his back that he understood why, and releasing her to the uniformed officer, turned to block the male dancer from getting any closer.

“Vy derzhite rot na zamke!” he said, pointing a long finger at Miss French. She whimpered, and it looked like she was about to start fighting again.

Weaver planted both hands against his chest and pushed the man backwards as he demanded, “What did you say to her?”

The man ignored him, fixing an icy stare on Weaver’s prisoner, until she started struggling again with the officer holding her, and threatening to cause the room to descend back into chaos.

“Get her out of here,” he snapped, wincing as the uniformed sergeant all but dragged her away. The other dancer tried to push Weaver aside and follow, and it took both Weaver and Rogers to keep him restrained, pushing him against the wall.

“She tried to kill me,” he protested to Rogers as the taller detective pressed a restraining arm across the top of his chest.

“And we have her in custody,” Rogers reasoned. “All right?”

He struggled a moment longer, before nodding and apparently calming down, and Rogers let him go. Weaver didn’t buy it for a second.

“What. Did you say to her?” he asked again, standing as tall as he could and getting as far up into the man’s face as he could.

The dancer gave him a wintry smile as he pushed at Weaver’s shoulders, and said, “Have a nice day, Detective,” before he sauntered out of the stage door, becoming lost in the encroaching shadows of the late Seattle afternoon.

Swearing, Weaver followed out into the alley, with Rogers close behind him.

“What the fuck, Weaver?” Rogers asked, and even _he_ had to almost trot to keep up, so quickly was Weaver walking.

“I want a statement from every single person that works at that place, even the janitors, and I don’t care whether _you_ do it, or the uniformed attending do, but I want it by end of day. You got that?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Rogers said, “What I don’t get is _why_? Seems to me that this is pretty straight forward. Probably a lover’s tiff. In his statement he kept referring to her as ‘my Prima,’ and said she accused him of cheating on her, so…”

He trailed off as Weaver shook his head. “There’s more to it than that. Something going on.”

“Like what?” Rogers asked as they reached the car, and he waited for Weaver to release the lock. “She say something to you?”

“Not yet,” Weaver said, shaking his head as he got into the car, then looked over at Rogers as the other man climbed in. “But she will.”

* * *

Anabelle French stood mute and listless as the uniformed officer processed her into the precinct, and then took her to an office that had a desk, a computer and an examination couch - much like a doctor’s office. A short while after he’d left her, a woman came in with another, female officer. She had promised to cooperate with the detective who, for some reason, she trusted, even if she didn’t know him from Adam. So when the doctor - as she’d identified herself - asked her to remove the stage make up she wore, she accepted the washcloth and resignedly disclosed the bruises that it covered on her arms and shoulders… disrobed so that she could examine the others that discolored her chest, back and abdomen. Submitted herself to a thorough examination. Afterwards, in borrowed scrubs, she was shown to an interview room. Where she waited.

She had no idea how long it had been, but she felt small and vulnerable. Fasoli’s words echoing in her mind, setting her teeth on edge. She should have shot him. She shouldn’t have missed.

She jumped as the door finally opened, only relaxing when she recognized Detective Weaver coming in beside the man that had been with him when they first arrived.

“This is Detective Rogers,” Weaver said. “You remember who I am?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Detective Weaver.”

He nodded, and then asked, “And we’re still okay to talk, right?”

“Yes,” she said again, then asked, “but… could I maybe get some tea?”

Weaver glanced at Rogers, and the other man turned and walked out. As he left, Weaver pulled out a chair opposite her, and set the file folder he was carrying on the table between them.

“All right, Miss French,” he began, but she interrupted.

“Belle,” she said. “You can call me—”

“We’ll… stick with Miss French,” he said with a smile.

The door opened again and Rogers came back, carrying a steaming cup of tea which he set down on the table and nudged in her direction, also setting down a couple of packets of sugar and the same of the tiny containers of milk.

“There you go, love,” he said, and she wondered if he was actually as hard as she had first thought, and she thanked him softly.

Weaver seemed to be waiting until she’d taken her first sip of tea before he spoke, then he said, “Quite a bruise you have there, Miss French.” He nodded toward her upper arm, now devoid of make up and the livid purple against her creamy skin. Self consciously, she tugged at the short sleeve of the scrubs, failing to cover it. “He do that to you?”

“He?” she asked, even though she knew full well who he meant.

“Gaston Fasoli,” Weaver said. “The man you were threatening with the gun.”

She shrugged.

“We can’t _help_ you if you won’t talk to us,” Weaver said, his tone almost imploring.

“It’s not that I won’t talk to you,” she said, so tired of it all that even though she was so afraid, she was ready to tell them everything she could, just to make it stop; for her… for the other girls.

“What then?” Weaver asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It could have been Fasoli. It could have been one of the others, I don’t. Know. Who.”

“Others?”

Belle sighed. “There are several of them,” she said, “Minders, dance coaches.” She closed her eyes, “They never treat the girls as they should. You think just because I’m the Prima I’m immune?”

“What do you mean, ‘treat the girls as they should,’?” Rogers asked, but Weaver waved the question away, as if he already knew - or could guess.

“Do you speak Russian, Miss French?” he asked.

She nodded, and added, “A lot of languages, actually.”

Weaver’s lips twitched and she thought he wanted to smile, but instead he seemed to catch himself and pressed it into a firm line. “What did Fasoli say to you at the theater.”

“He told me to keep my mouth shut,” she said.

“To keep your mouth shut?” Weaver repeated.

“About?” Rogers added.

Belle closed her eyes and put her head down on her arms, on top of the table… a whimper escaping unbidden from deep within her. She wanted to say. She wanted to tell him _everything,_ but a memory suddenly grasped a hold of her, like a icy vice. Lined up… all of them. The sledge hammer a warning blow against the fellow dancer’s knees and ankles. The girl had tried to run, had tried to talk. She was found weeks later where they’d dumped her, in the gutter of the bad side of some west coast town.

Suddenly her body was shaking with all the tears she’d held inside, and the new sobs she fought, her fears for herself, for the others, for everything that suddenly seemed to rest on her slender shoulders.

“I… can’t!” she wept.

“You’re _safe_ here, Miss French,” Weaver told her, just for a moment covering one of her hands with his own.

“You don’t understand.” she whispered.

“So _help_ me understand.” Weaver insisted. “Tell me what happened.”

She sat up, wiping her eyes with her hands, hands which shook almost as much as they had when she had been holding the gun. The thought it made her feel sick to her stomach, but it gave her a place to start.

“It… It was his gun,” she began. “I knew he had it; knew he kept it in his dressing room, hidden in his make-up drawer. The day before I’d heard them talking…” She caught the look of confused query on Weaver’s face, and continued, “Fasoli and Stephanov, the director. I’d been sick a few weeks before, but tried to carry on, and I made mistakes. Fasoli came into my dressing room every day. Told me I wasn’t good enough. Told me that I was getting too old, that I needed to be replaced by another girl, a younger girl. Said I was only fit for the farm.”

“Farm?” It was Detective Roger’s voice, but she saw Weaver throw him a impatient look, so she continued.

“I was scared. He said he was going to come for me and take me there himself if I made one more mistake. I wasn’t going to let that happen. I couldn’t. I know what goes on there, and I… I…” she couldn’t even bring herself to imagine what she would have done. “So when he was on stage with one of the other dancer, rehearsing, with her dancing my part, I went into his dressing room and stole his gun. He’d taken it on himself to decide. Stephanov hadn’t even said anything and Fasoli was ready to replace me. He came in today - told me I was through, not dancing today or ever again.” She looked between Weaver and Rogers, trying to find the courage from somewhere, from either one of them to speak the final sentence. “Girls in our company… if you don’t dance, they don’t _fire_ you. They take you back… to the farm… and use you another way.”

She watched both men shift uncomfortably in their seats; saw the flash of fury that crossed Weaver’s face, the outrage in Rogers’ expression.

“This farm? It a real place or just a euphemism?” Rogers asked.

“Real,” she said. “A place you’re taken to when you first join the company, and _never_ want to end up again.”

* * *

Weaver closed the file folder that sat in front of him, for the first time in a long time was actually surprised. No, not surprised, horrified. Horrified that he had stumbled, quite literally, into the middle of something so heinous, so _organized_.

He reached over and briefly covered Belle’s hand again with his own once more, offering quiet support as he said, “Miss French, I just want to have a quick word with my partner here, and a couple of other people, and then we’ll see how things are, okay?” He tapped Rogers on the arm and then gestured to the door with his head before adding. “We might be a little while. Is there anything you need?”

She shook her head, but in the exact same moment her stomach growled loudly, making her blush, and she gave him an apologetic look.

“We’ll get you something to eat,” he said, as he stood up, adding, “Sit tight.”

With that he led Rogers out of the room.

“I’m not imagining things, am I?” Rogers asked as soon as he closed the door. “She _is_ talking about some kind of trafficking ring.”

“That’s what it sounds like to me,” Weaver agreed, then he slapped Rogers in the chest with the back of his hand. “Come on - captain.”

He started to stride away, heading for the captain’s office, but Rogers caught his arm and tugged him back.

“Wait,” he said, “You’re going by the book?”

There was a note of incredulity in the other man’s voice that set Weavers hackles on end.

“This is bigger than just the two of us, Detective,” he snarled. “You want these bastards to get off on a technicality just because I don’t know when to play by the rules and when to do things my way?”

“No, no of course not, I—” Rogers broke off when Weaver shook off his grasp, and headed once more toward the captain’s office. He emerged to a giant altercation in the bullpen.

“What the fuck!” he breathed, and altered his course to where two uniformed officers were holding a squirming, squealing Tilly between them as she lashed out with hands and feet as she tried to get free.

“Let me go!” she growled, wriggling first one way and then the other, “I gotta tell ‘im. Detective Weaver, ‘e needs to hear this!”

“You’re not going anywhere until you calm down,” another junior detective was saying.

“He needs to hear it _now_!” she shot back, “Are you _stupid_?”

He’d heard enough, seen enough, to know that either it really _was_ important, or else she hadn’t taken her meds again and was having some sort of episode.

“What’s going on?” he called across to the others, then added in his most fatherly tone, “Tilly?”

“Oh, thank God,” she huffed, and stopped struggling. “Detective Weaver—”

“Detective Weaver,” She was interrupted by one of the others. “This… young lady turned up at the front desk asking to see you and when we asked her to wait…”

Weaver held up a hand, just as Rogers came out of the interview suites, having stayed to arrange for food to be taken through to Miss French. 

“It’s all right,” he said, and nodded his head at the officers that were still hanging on to Tilly as though they were afraid she was going to tear up the room to tell them they could let her go. “She’s one of mine.”

They took a second, but at an added glare, as he drew closer to them, making his way between the desks toward where they had Tilly, they released her arms. He expected she’d pull her coat straight in that exaggerated way she had, and then walk the rest of the way to him with her nose in the air, so he was entirely unprepared when she all but vaulted the desk, grabbed him by the wrist so hard that the links of his bracelet dug into his skin deeply enough to be almost painful, and then started pulling him back to the interview suite doors.

“You have to take her out of here,” she insisted, and though a part of him wondered what she thought she was talking about, another part of him - a part that tapped cold fingertips all along his spine - knew exactly what she meant, even though she _shouldn’t_ know. “Take her somewhere safe.”

He leaned down, twisting his arm around hers until _he_ was the one holding _her_ and and looked right into her face as he asked, “Did you take your medicine today?”

“What?” she asked, looking and sounding as if she didn’t think the two things should go together at all, and then frowned as she obviously realized what he was driving at. “Yes!” she snapped in irritation, “Of course I did. I promised, didn’t I? I’m not having one of my… funny turns if that’s what you think.” She pushed at him then, urgently, almost desperately trying to get him back to the door, back to Belle French. “We were at the theater, Atla, Billy and me, the girls - the dancers - they’re usually good to us, and Atla hasn’t eaten in days, I’m worried she’s getting sick, and we were about to sneak in like we usually do, and I heard the big man - tall, dark hair, ugly eyes… heard him telling some other bloke that she wasn’t going to _say_ anything because there were people coming for her, and that even ‘Seattle’s finest’ wouldn’t be able to stop ‘em. Look, you haven’t got _time_ for this, Detective, I’m telling the truth, you have to get her _out_ of here.”

She was practically hopping from foot to foot, more agitated than he’d ever seen her, almost desperate.

“Did they say anything else,” Rogers asked, but Tilly gave him an almost defiant stare.

“Please, Weaver!” she urged, pressing both hands against his shirt, beneath his open leather jacket. He stared at her for a moment longer, and then nodded once, and she appeared to relax, but only a little. He reached for his wallet and pulled out a couple of twenties and his spare door-key, pressing them into Tilly’s still outstretched hand.

“Get Atla something to eat, then go get yourselves clean, dry and warm. It’s cold, and it’s going to be colder tonight,” he said.

She gave him a tight smile, with worry still crowding her eyes, nodded once and then turned to head toward the exit. Part way she stopped, trotted back to him and then stood on tiptoes to press a swift kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you,” she murmured, adding, “Good luck.”

She disappeared out of the door before he could tell her, ‘get away with you,’ the affectionate chuckle also dying on his lips as the gravity of the situation descended again.

“You’re not seriously going to—”

Rogers broke off when Weaver pulled his phone out of his pocket, as well as his precinct issued pager, and pushed them both into Roger’s hands.

“Take these, put them in my desk drawer,” he instructed,” then give me as long as you can before you go to the captain. Tell him what we know. Talk to the D.A.; whoever you have to. Work the case.”

“Where are you going?” Rogers asked.

“Better you don’t know,” he said, and turning, opened the door to the interview suite.

“How do I get hold of you?” his partner demanded, clearly vexed, and holding up the hand in which he still held Weaver’s communication devices.

“You don’t.” Weaver answered flatly, stepped through the opened door, and closed it on his partners protests.

He walked quickly, dismissing the the uniformed officer that he’d left guarding his ‘prisoner’ as soon as he stepped up to the door of the room she was in, and then waited until the corridor was empty before he opened up the door.

Belle looked up as he entered, her expression becoming one of tense, extreme fear again as her eyes met his.

“Change of plan,” he told her softly, and reaching the table, unfastened the cuffs she wore securing her to the table, and slipped them into his pocket before hooking her arm with his hand as gently as the urgency would allow, and tugged her to her feet.

“Where are we going?” she asked, her voice wobbling slightly.

“Somewhere safe,” he answered as he led her out along the corridor, toward the fire escape, as he muttered, “We’d better hope Rogers has the Irish gift of the gab enough to buy us some time.”

* * *

It was still too early when he arrived at Roni’s. He tried the door anyway, but it was locked, so he started pounding on it with one hand, the other still tightly holding on to Belle French’s wrist, even as he tried to shelter her from view half in front of him.

The fewer people that saw her, the better. It wasn’t unusual for _him_ to be seen going into Roni’s Bar. It was almost his second home, after all, but for him to go in there with someone else - a woman. It wouldn’t take long for anyone in the know to put two and two together.

After a moment or two of pounding, he was rewarded with an irritated, “All right, All right,” before he heard the lock click. He didn’t wait for Roni to actually open the door, just pushed French in ahead of him, almost taking Roni’s teeth out with the speed at which he got them inside.

“A bit early, isn’t it, even for you?” Roni started, but if she’d been about to say anything else, she swallowed it when he turned and locked the door behind himself. “All right, Weaver, what’s have you gotten yourself into this time,” she asked.

He shook his head, not answering her question, instead pushed French down onto a nearby chair, and gestured with his head toward the bar, taking a moment to pull the key from the lock, not trusting that his charge wouldn’t make a run for it, given the chance.

When they reached it, Roni stepped behind the bar, and automatically reached for a tumbler, and poured a good measure of her best whiskey into it.

“Mind telling me, now, what’s going on?” she asked, sarcastic, true, but with a note of concern too. He was touched.

“I need a favor, Roni,” he answered. “Maybe a few.”

“I’m listening,” she said, but her body language didn’t say the same as she folded her arms across her chest.

“Look the less I actually _tell_ you, the better - safer - you’ll be if anyone comes sniffing around and asking questions… just…” He took a breath. “I need to borrow your lake house,” he said, “Lay low for a while.”

Roni nodded over toward where he’d pushed French down into a seat. He glanced over his shoulder. She hadn’t moved. “She’s in trouble,” she said as much as asked.

“A witness, and she needs protecting,” he corrected with as much of the truth as he dared tell. For all that they repeatedly antagonized each other, he _did_ have a soft spot for Roni that he couldn’t explain, and it went further than the fact that she furnished him with some of the best Whiskey in Seattle.

“Why can’t you use a safe house?” she asked.

“Because safe houses belong to the department,” he said, “and I think someone inside is bent.”

“Tell me something _else_ I don’t know,” Roni said dryly, with a pointed look at Weaver.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, “My methods might be a bit… rough around the edges, but bent, I’m not.”

Roni looked at him, long and hard, as if she were searching inside his very soul, until finally she nodded.

“Okay,” she said, “You can use the lake house, but I swear, Weaver, you break it, you bought it, get what I mean.”

He nodded once, sharply. “I promise you, I’ll give it back to you when this is over, good as new.”

“Well, that’s good,” Roni said, “because right now it’s little more than a run down shack, but it’s a roof and four sturdy walls.” She snapped her fingers and pointed at the hand that still held her keys, and began to take a small set of keys from the key chain. “You said a few,” she said as she worked.

“You still have that old banger out back?”

“My car, you mean?” she said sourly. “Yes. Not that I really use it, but I have it.”

“Well… gonna need a way to _get_ to your lake house,” he pointed out, “and I can’t use mine.”

“Fine,” she huffed, pulling off another key from the chain. “What else?”

Weaver looked back at Belle French. She was sitting there, in the scrubs they’d given her at the precinct, all but wringing her hands. “She’s gonna need something to wear,” he said.

Roni looked her over from a distance, and he could see her eyes appraising the other woman, before she sighed again and said, “I’m not sure anything I have will fit her all that well, but… I’ll take her upstairs and we’ll see what we can do about finding a couple of changes of clothes. Will that be enough?”

“It’ll have to be,” Weaver said.

“She have a name?” Roni asked.

“French. Belle French.”

Roni nodded, then calling across to the other woman said, “Miss French?” Weaver watched as the young dancer started slightly, and then looked up at Roni, who said, “How about we leave this miserable old Roller to his whiskey, and go and find you something more comfortable to wear?”

* * *

By the time Detective Weaver pulled the car to a stop at the end of a long, gravel road, it was dark and the hour had long since passed midnight. She had been awake at midnight, but only just, having woken up a couple of minutes earlier when Weaver hit the rumble strip at the side of the road, and had jerked the car back into its lane.

“If you’re tired,” she said softly, having long since accepted that the man meant her no harm and was actually trying to look out for her, “I can drive for a while.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said, “Just wasn’t paying attention.”

She had drifted off again a few minutes later, but remembered watching as the dashboard clock turned from 11:59 to midnight.

After she and Roni had found a couple of outfits that would fit well enough, and packed them into a bag, along with something to sleep in, and some jeans and a t-shirt she could wear for the time being, they’d hit the road in Roni’s car. They’d stopped after an hour or so at a Walmart store, where Weaver had bought supplies with the Money Roni had given him from her safe. After that it seemed to Belle that they turned around on themselves and headed back the way they’d come, but bypassed Seattle and kept on heading north.

They’d stopped for something to eat at a roadside diner once they left the highway somewhere around Everett and began heading east, and with a full belly, and the winding mountain roads they turned onto it was hard for her to keep her eyes open, and she had fallen asleep.

The night was absolute once Weaver turned off the headlights of the car, and though not usually afraid of the dark, Belle felt herself fumbling for some kind of contact with the man.

“It’s all right,” he told her softly, “We’ll be safe here.”

“Where _is_ here exactly,” she asked, still clinging to his arm, as slowly her eyes began to adjust to the darkness.

“Okanogan-Wenatchee National Forest,” he said. “It’s where Roni’s place is. It’s a bit of a walk from here, but we’ll get you settled first, and then I’ll come back for the rest of the stuff.”

“I can help carry things,” she said. “That way you won’t have so much to come back for.”

The stark flare of the interior vehicle light was almost painful after the pitch black, when they opened the doors, and the first thing Weaver did, as she stood blinking beside the car passenger door, was to go around to the trunk for the flashlights. They each had one, and then loaded up with as much as they could carry.

“Watch the ground here,” Weaver said in a low voice as though he were trying to avoid disturbing the very air around them. “It’s a little uneven.” Then, slowly, carefully, but surely, they made their way out into the nothingness of the National Forest.

It was tough going, even for someone as fit and supple as Belle was, and she was picking her way extra carefully over some of the rockier, rootier patches of ground they traveled. She didn’t want to turn her ankle, of worse, injure herself in a way that would be devastating to her career as a dancer - if she even _had_ a career after all of this was over. She stopped frequently, and was just beginning to worry that perhaps she had read the man all wrong, and that Weaver was leading her astray, when she became aware of a new sound coming out of the darkness ahead and to the side, the sound of water, lapping gently at the shore.

“Almost there.” Weaver’s voice confirmed what she could hear, and a moment later, in the combined beams of their flashlights, a wooden structure up ahead, a log built cabin, began to reveal itself, and soon, she heard Weaver’s heavy, booted tread on the wooden porch ahead of her. She climbed the steps to join him and set down her burdens as she waited for him to unlock the door.

Inside, it wasn’t much warmer than the outside, and she wondered how long it was since Roni, or anyone in fact, had actually stayed there. Even so, as she moved her flashlight around to catch what glimpses she could of the interior, she saw a fireplace, and kitchen appliances, and what she could see of everything looked decent enough, and certainly not the ‘run down shack’ that Roni had named it. She did wonder about power though, or whether they would have to manage their entire stay by candle light and campfire cooking.

Straining her eyes to try and see where Weaver had gone, she barely caught sight of his leather-clad back, as he appeared to be poking around in a closet of some kind. She heard the sound of a heavy switch being thrown, and then a softer click, before light blinked into existence over in the kitchen area, where Weaver was standing.

“Solar power,” he explained as he turned back to her. “There are panels on the roof on the lakeside.”

She nodded. “Useful. I was wondering,” she said.

“Doesn’t power the heat and hot water, though,” he said. “For that…” he nodded over to the fireplace toward which she had wandered as she explored the room, and she moved aside as he came closer, and began to lay a fire in the hearth.

She couldn’t help but shiver, and pull the jacket Roni had given to her more tightly around herself, though it wasn’t entirely from the cold. The thought of a fire burning brightly, the sound of the lake that she could still hear even inside, the quiet, the solitude…

…and the man before her. A man whom, she felt certain, truly cared.

As if to confirm her thoughts, he glanced over his shoulder at her, and said quietly, “This will soon warm the place up, don’t worry. And we have plenty of wood to keep us cozy.”

She smiled. It seemed an odd word to be coming from a man like Weaver; odd, but endearing.

“What?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow as he turned to look over at her properly for a moment. She shook her head, not really knowing how she could say what was going through her mind without embarrassing herself. “Surprised a city boy like me knows how to build a decent fire?”

“You’re… not at all the man I thought you were, Detective,” she told him.

He chuckled softly, and asked, “And that bothers you?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m glad.”

He turned back to the fire, and made sure that it was lit, and burning well enough before he stood up, and wiped his hands on the front of his jeans. She watched him as he looked around the lake house, and the supplies they had already managed to bring from the car.

“If you want to make yourself at home, Miss French, I’ll go get the rest of our things.”

“Belle,” she said.

He regarded her for a moment with a look that she thought showed doubt, even reticence to do as she was asking him, and use her name.

“You… don’t know how long we’re going to have to stay here, right?” she asked into the silent scrutiny he was subjecting her to, which was becoming a little prickle over the surface of her skin.

“No,” he said. “No, you’re right, I don’t.”

“In that case, please,” she said, “I’d rather you not treat me like a stranger.”

Again, he regarded her, that same, penetrating stare, until, finally he nodded. “All right… Belle.”

She nodded her thanks, and said, “I’m pretty sure I saw some cocoa and milk in one of the bags we already brought. How about I make some for us when you get back?”

“Sounds Perfect,” he said, with a nod. “It’ll give the fire a chance to warm this place - reach up to the loft.” He nodded his head toward a set of steps leading up to a second floor that only reached half way across the room. “Bed’s up there.”

The mention of bed made her realize how tired she was, and she stifled a yawn, and then murmured a soft apology. He shook his head then.

“Been a long day,” he said in acknowledgment, then added, “Go on, make a start on that cocoa. I’ll try not to be too long.”

He headed for the door, but she reached out and caught hold of him by the elbow. He turned and looked at her, an eyebrow raised in query.

“Be careful, Detective Weaver,” she said, trying not to let too much of her fear show.

“Ken,” he told her softly, and squeezed her hand on his arm, before pulling away, and heading out through the door and into the night.

* * *

Outside, Weaver shivered and pulled just jacket more tightly around himself. It was surprising how quickly the fire had already warmed the lake house, making the change in temperature more than a little noticeable. 

Grabbing his flashlight from where he’d left it on the porch, he began to make his way back toward the car. Letting the night swallow him, and trying not to take too much notice of his thoughts, his feelings, the way the woman under his care was getting well and truly under his skin.

Trying to keep it professional was not his strong suit at the best of times. He was willing to admit - to the right person, of course - that he was a bit of a wild card. He did things his way, and if that crossed some lines, well, so long as it got results it didn’t matter to him.

Now though, the result was keeping this beautiful woman safe, and allowing himself to get involved with her - in any way - was not the way to do that, but she’d insisted on removing that last barrier, that last shield against the way he was feeling. Anabelle French had asked him to use her name - and not just her name, but a pet name; one that friends might use. Well that was okay, right? He could be a friend.

Yet… there was something about this woman that touched two side of his nature, both at the same time - the protector, and…

“Not gonna happen,” he told himself aloud, “You’re going to hole up here, until Rogers gets it all leveled out and comes looking for you.” Eventually his partner would figure out to go ask Roni where the fuck he was. When that happened, he’d be able to let Belle go and get on with his mundane detective work, maybe go bend a few heads in the local street gangs, just for good measure. _Fucking depressing!_

The first splash of rain, when it came, out of nowhere, landed on his right cheek and for just a second he actually thought it was a tear. Then he figured it out and laughed at himself, humorless and maybe even a bit angry, but it hurried his steps all the same, and soon he found himself at the side of the car, pulling open the door and grabbing the rest of the supplies he’d bought - enough for an extended stay out in the middle of nowhere, if it came to it.

On the way back, he had to turn up the collar of his jacket to keep the ever increasing rain from dripping down the back of his neck and soaking his shirt. He knew it was a futile effort, but maybe it would just be a passing shower. At least he had a change of clothes now, and for the first time maybe since he was a kid just out of middle school, a pair of pajamas to sleep in.

It was probably a good job too, since by the time he got back to the lake house, his ‘passing shower’ had soaked him all the way through to his underwear.

“Oh my God!”

Belle’s voice was full of concern as he stepped back inside, and closed the door behind him. “You’re drenched! Here, put that stuff down and come closer to the fire.” As she spoke she started moving the wooden chairs, on which she’d hung the sheets, to give him space to get closer to the hearth. Then she stepped up behind him, and tugged on his jacket.

He let her help him off with that, but then turned and caught her by the upper arms, leaning down to look at her as he said, “It’s okay, I’ll just get changed. We’re going to want to get to bed soon, anyway.” He gestured then at the sheets, and she blushed.

“I found the linen closet,” she told him. “I wanted to get as much ready as I could, but the sheets felt a little bit damp, so…” she shrugged. “I also thought the fire would warm them some.” Then she nodded to a couple of other chairs behind where he was standing, which had thick toweling robes hung over them. “The robes too. I found them in the bathroom and I pretty much unpacked everything.”

He offered her a smile, and teasing said, “I didn’t think I’d been gone that long.” She shrugged, and the blush on her cheeks renewed, and he found himself wondering what the hell was going through her mind to cause it. Instead he said, “Why don’t you go and get changed for bed, then we can have that cocoa right?”

She nodded. “I won’t take long,” she told him.

“Take all the time you need,” he said, “I’ll change while you’re gone, and build up the fire a little bit.”

“Make sure you get properly dry,” she told him, “I don’t want you catching your death on my account. There are towels in…”

“…in the linen closet, yes. I know,” he said, and absently let his hands run up and down her arms, gently, and mindful of her bruises, a gesture meant to comfort. “It’s all right. Go on. I promise.”

He watched as she picked up the smaller of the two robes, and took it, and the bag of clothes that Roni had given her, and headed through to the bathroom. He heard the click of the wall mounted heater that he knew was in there, and satisfied himself that she was getting herself changed before he began to shrug out of his own, wet clothing. He’d hang it by the hearth to dry overnight.

He hadn’t been wrong about how wet he’d gotten, he discovered as he finally peeled off his jeans, and tugged at the boxer briefs he wore beneath that were stuck to his skin, they were so wet. Forgetting himself for a second or two, he padded naked to where he knew the linen closet was to grab a towel. It was only when he heard a click from the bathroom that he realized what he’d done. His heart rate doubled in an instant, and he grabbed a towel, hurrying back over closer to the fireplace, stepping close enough that the hanging sheets shielded the lower half of his body. Then he heard water running from the bathroom.

 _Get a fucking grip._ He toweled himself off quickly, still berating himself for his carelessness. What if she _had_ come out while he was parading around in nothing but his rough-hewn charm. There was unprofessional and there was _unprofessional_. He growled softly as a stray, rebellious, but honest thought pushed to the fore. _Would it have been so bad?_

As soon as he was dry, he pulled on the pajamas. The gray and black checks on the pants were subdued, and further quieted by the plain gray, long sleeved shirt, and the soft, brushed cotton felt good on his skin, enlivened by the vigorous toweling he’d just given himself. He’d do, he decided, but as an afterthought, pulled on the robe, appreciating the way it had been warmed by the fire, which he then set about fulfilling his promise and tended it, building it up a little, so that it would see them through the night.

He was just straightening up when Belle emerged from the bathroom. She was swaddled in the robe that was cinched tightly at the waist over… whatever she was wearing beneath. The robe covered her night ware completely, and he could see that her legs were bare beneath the robe, that reached to her knees. He swallowed hard, and clamped down on his vivid imagination.

She offered him a smile, and he held out a hand. “Come and get warm,” he said. “I think we can probably move the sheets now.”

“I need to finish making the cocoa,” she told him, but he shook his head.

“I can do that,” he said. “Wouldn’t be taking very good care of you if I let _you_ get a chill, would I?”

She chuckled a little, and said a soft, “Touché,” before approaching, taking his hand, and allowing him to draw her closer to the fire. He breathed in deeply as she came closer, the soft, clean scent of her reaching deep within him to a place long since buried.

“Why don’t I move these over a bit,” she said, gesturing to the sheets, “let the heat out into the room, and we can sit on the couch and enjoy our cocoa.”

“All right,” he agreed, and realizing he was still holding her hand, he let it go with a murmured apology.

She shook her head at that, and offered even more softly, “It was nice.”

He closed his eyes at that, and kicked himself, realizing, perhaps for the first time since they’d met, that human touch, of a kind that was other than connected with dance, or with the abuse she’d suffered, was something she was lacking. He didn’t know why he suddenly thought he should have known, but he _definitely_ felt he should have picked up on it, and for just a second wondered whether he dare give her more of that kind of solace.

“Cocoa,” he reminded himself after a moment, and then headed for the kitchen area. As he worked, he heard Belle shuffling things around behind him, and risked a glance. She had set the sheets on a single chair off to the side allowing the heat of the fire to reach further out into the room, to the couch, and she had picked up his discarded, wet clothing, and hung it over the back of another chair, set off to the side, ready to move when she went up to bed.

The domesticity of it all, belying the danger she had been in, and probably still was, made him smile. If there were ever a statement on the way his life had been lately, this was probably it. _She_ was probably it.

Lifting the pan with the bubbling milk inside, from the heat, he poured it into the two cups she had prepared, and stirred both vigorously to make sure their was no powder left in the bottom. He almost started when he felt the soft touch on his arm, and felt Belle’s heat against his back.

“What have they ever done to you?” she asked softly, then added, “Come and sit down. It’s been a long day for _you_ too.”

He nodded, and together they walked back to the couch and sat down. He tried not to notice, as Belle curled up with her feet up on the couch at her side, the way the bottom of the robe slipped open to reveal one shapely leg almost all the way up her thigh. She sipped her cocoa, and let out a soft sigh of appreciation.

“It’s good,” she murmured, lapping a splash of chocolate from her lips. He looked away. Looking instead into the crackling fire as he felt himself starting to respond to the thoughts running through his mind at her actions.

“You did all the heavy lifting,” he told her. “All I did was pour in the milk.”

“And beat it to death with a spoon,” she teased and he couldn’t help chuckle.

A silence fell as they both sipped their cocoa, and he figured she must be as lost in her own thoughts as he was in trying to ignore his.

“Thank you.”

Her soft voice drew his attention back to her, and he half turned her way with a frown on his face, and set down his cup. He was about to speak, when she reached out and pressed the tips of her fingers against his lips.

“Don’t tell me you are just doing your job. You didn’t have to do this. You could have just left me there and trusted the law to keep me safe,” she said.

He reached up and took her hand from his lips, stroking the tips of her fingers with his own.

“Wasn’t going to happen,” he told her softly. “They would have gotten to you. I couldn’t allow that.”

“Be honest,” she began, “Because of the case, or…”

He could have lied. He could have told her it _was_ just about the case, that the fact that something in her had pulled at him from the very beginning, like a kind of recognition that he couldn’t explain, meant nothing to him, but she deserved better than that. She deserved the truth.

“No,” he said quietly, then with a expression full of regret, added, “But it would be wrong of me to take advantage of the situation; take advantage of _you_.”

“You wouldn’t be,” she told him, equally as softly. “To offer a little human kindness? How would have be so wrong.”

He laughed, humorlessly, his voice thick with unrequited need when he spoke. “Oh, believe me, what I have on my mind is far more than human kindness.”

Belle blushed, and he released her hand to reach up and cup her face, his thumb stroked softly over her reddened cheek as though he could wipe away the blush, when all he truly wanted to do was cause her a greater blush yet.

“And if that’s what I want?” She leaned into his hand and shifted closer.

“You say that now—” he started, but didn’t have the chance to get any further.

“I say that, period.”

In one graceful, fluid movement, that served as a reminder that she was a dancer, lithe, supple and flexible, she set down her cup on the floor beside the couch, and moved to sit astride his pajama clad legs. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders for barely a moment while she caught her balance, though almost automatically he brought his hands to rest on her hips, to steady her, and then her fingers stroked upward either side of his neck to cup his face, bringing his gaze up to hers.

“From the moment you walked into my dressing room,” she said, finding his eyes with hers, “I’ve had this overwhelming feeling… as though I know you - somehow - even though I know we’ve never met before. How could we?” She paused as if to give him a chance to answer, but all he could do was shake his head. “I want to know how. I want to know why. I want to know _you_.”

As she spoke her voice became quieter, and she moved closer still, pressing against him until he could feel the heat of her body close against him, and he let out a voiced breath, not quite a moan, before her felt her breath against his lips in the instant before she closed the final distance and kissed him softly.

It was barely as if a feather had brushed against the soft skin of his mouth, and the intake of breath he gave parted his lips. The feathery touch pressed again, then the warm softness of her mouth tugged against his lower lip, and he was lost.

He tightened his arms around her, holding her closer yet to his body, and the ache he felt in his groin as his already semi-hard cock became fuller, harder and trapped between them. She moaned into his mouth as his arms crossed her back, the fingers of one hand sliding into her hair as he took control of the kiss, parting her lips with his and plundering her mouth for all her sweetness. She tasted of mint and chocolate, and sunlight - somehow sunlight even in this darkest of places.

She tugged open the belt of her robe and shrugged her shoulders to let it fall as far as his hands would allow, effectively trapping her hands and he dragged his mouth from hers. He pressed a line of hot, wet kisses down over her neck to bathe the softness of her skin, left revealed by the spaghetti strap of her pajama top and bare to the upper curve of her breasts and the cleft between, as though he could wash away the bruises still visible there.

She leaned back, her breathing quickening, her fingertips searing scalding lines down over his chest until her palms pressed against his hard nipples through the shirt he wore. He ached to take it off, to expose all of her to his kisses, to take her completely and leave her trembling and breathless with fulfillment.

The thought brought him up short, just as her fingertips skimmed against his belly above the waistband of his pants, right above his heated erection. What the fuck was he doing? She deserved better than this, better than some hurried groping, fumbling around on a couch too small for her comfort. He forced himself to pull away, to tug _her_ away until he could catch her hands.

“Ken?” she whispered, half question, half disappointment.

“Not here,” he said breathlessly. “Not like this.” She tipped her head to the side, regarding him, and he looked upward over her body, over her quivering belly, her breasts - nipples showing through the navy silk of the camisole top - over the beauty of her face until their eyes met, and he murmured, “Come to bed.”

* * *

Belle’s entire body was humming with nerves and need, and his words went through her like a bolt of electricity to leave her already soaked and aching core pulsing with want. In answer, she climbed from his lap, feeling the damp silk of her pajama shorts rub against her thighs as she walked to pick up the sheets from the chair, while Weaver moved a fireguard in front of the fire still burning in the hearth.

They climbed the stairs to the loft hand in hand, and together made short work of the mundane necessity of making up the bed, piling on the blankets and the comforter to make sure they would be warm in the night. She was just straightening up after after turning down the bedclothes, when she felt the hot press of his lips on the back of her shoulder, and she moaned, leaning back into him, and reaching around herself to dig her short fingernails into the top of his thighs as his hands came up to cup her breasts through her camisole. His thumbs danced over her nipples.

She could feel him, hard, pressed against the top of her buttocks and lower back, and she let her hips sway, caressing him with her body until his moan vibrated against her skin. One of his hands left her breast and dipped lower, slipped beneath the leg of her shorts and brushed slowly through her tight curls until his deft touch parted her wet folds, and glided through her liquid desire to circle her clit, barely touching, and she let out a whimper, trying to move to catch his hand, his touch, needing to feel it.

“Ken, please,” she gasped breathlessly, but he removed his touch from her body, turning her in his arms to press his mouth to hers, gathering her against him. Then he lifted her in his arms and set her down on the bed, following her down to press his body to hers, but only for a moment.

Resting on his elbows over her, his mouth descended over her neck and his hand pushed aside the top of her camisole to reveal the fullness of her breast to his gaze, to his touch, and to the pull of his lips as he closed them around her puckered nipple, and suckled softly, but without cease or mercy, his other hand cupped her other breast, first through the silk of her top, then slipped inside to pinch and tease her nipple, until she squirmed and moaned out her need for him.

Slowly, he continued his descent over her body, leaving her breasts, he pushed up the front of her top, to bathe her skin with with nips and kisses, leaving her tingling, gasping as he moved lower yet and he nuzzled at her wetness with his nose, his fingers teasing around the waistband of her shorts. 

She gripped his shoulders, and at the same time lifted her hips in clear invitation to remove the garment. It seemed it was all that he needed, and almost agonizingly slowly he eased the silk down over her thighs, her calves, tugged them off over her feet as he knelt up to pull off his own shirt.

Belle ran her eyes over his chest and stomach. She ached to reach out and peel the rest of his nightwear from his lean, muscled frame.

“See something you like?” he teased, and she blushed, as he began to kiss his way up her legs, lingering at the back of her knees until she squirmed, and then he ran his fingers over the inside of her thighs, the touch firm, but against her too sensitive skin it felt like hot needles, painful in the most exquisite way, and more arousing than anything she could have imagined.

“You,” she breathed, as his insistent touch parted her thighs, and his hot breath bathed her wet core in the moment before his tongue pressed between her folds, swollen with desire, and lapped upward to flicker against her clit. She cried out, her back arching, trying to catch the fleeting touch more fully and escape it both at the same time.

He moaned, the sound vibrating against her as he lapped and swirled, as he suckled on the aching nub of her clit, leaving her trembling, her breath coming in short gasps as she felt herself, like a spring wound tightly close to breaking. The touch was her undoing. As he closed his lips around her clit, sucking and alternately flickering against her with his tongue, he teased her entrance with a long, slender finger, circling once, twice, before he slowly eased the tip just inside. Her muscles grasped at him, and he moaned anew, easing his touch in slowly, and out, in and out until every muscle in her body trembled on the edge of oblivion before she broke, the wave of her climax swept over her.

He lapped softly over the length of her, the touch inside of her slowly withdrawing as the edge faded, until he left her center and kissed his way back up over her, gathering her close and nuzzling at her hair, his fingers idly caressing the side of her breast.

She trailed her own fingers over his arms, his chest, felt the taught muscles of his belly harden at her touch, and the twitch of his cock against her where he pressed, hard, against her hip. She paused, only barely before she slipped a hand between them and pressed her palm against his length, feeling the heat of him through the cotton pants, but wanting the smoothness of skin against skin she drew away, sat up only to cross her arms and grasp the bottom of her camisole and peel it off. Weaver moaned her name.

“Take them off,” she answered, plucking at the side of his pants, and when he did she tipped him onto his back, and straddled him as she had before, this time with nothing between them - only skin.

Skin on skin, she lay herself down to feel every inch of him against her, then after a time, pushed herself up, her hands on his chest. Her thighs framed his hips and she undulated against him, letting his hardness glide between her folds, against her clit.

“Belle,” he moaned, and grasped her hips to still her. She ran her hands over his chest, his shoulder, to where the puckered circle of a scar lay stark against the tan of the rest of him in the dim and flickering light.

“You were shot,” she said quietly. The though gave her almost a physical pain.

“A long time ago,” he assured her quietly. Then he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her to him and deftly flipped her beneath him, covering her completely, and he kissed her, a deep, consuming kiss. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Ken,” she breathed, and slowly raised her thighs around him, slipped her hands down over his shoulders, down to draw tiny circles in the small of his back; the top of his buttocks. “I want you,” she whispered.

“Are you sure,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire that matched her own. What did it matter they were virtually strangers? And yet… that familiarity swept over her again, stronger than before, as he added, “We haven’t—”

She caught his lips in a kiss, cutting off his words, pulling back only to whisper, “Take me, slowly,” into his mouth.

He moaned into the kiss, and reached between them to guide his cock to find her.

She felt the broad, blunt head of his scalding heat press against her, part her, open her to him as he glided deep into her soaked and needful core. She gave a soft, almost sobbing cry at the sheer rightness of it as he pressed himself to her, filled her, their bodies meeting as he held a moment, buried deep inside of her.

“Oh, Belle,” he breathed, letting his head fall into the crook of her neck, and she ran her fingers into his hair, scraped her nails against his scalp and turned her head to find his ear. Her tongue lapped at his lobe, drawing it in between her lips, before she nipped softly.

“Feel… so good,” she whispered against his ear.

“Perfect,” he murmured, lifting his head to find her mouth with his.

His tongue plundered her mouth, and she tasted herself on him, moaning softly with increased need. It wasn’t enough for him to fill her, she wanted him to lose himself in her; wanted to break apart around him, draw him with her and milk him dry. She wanted to exhaust herself in him and he in her. She lifted her hips and squeezed her muscles around him, and he broke the kiss, gasping, a breath that turned into a low, needful growl as he began to move with her.

He was hot, and hard, thick and long, and she moved with him as though they’d known each other forever. Slowly, lazily at first their shared movements stoked the fires of their need, but with each thrust, each squeeze, each sigh and moan, their desire grew, and they gave their passions head.

His thrusts became faster, harder, deeper as she lifted her legs to wrap them around his back. She wanted all of him, and moaned against his shoulder where she nipped and sucked, as she felt the heat of his balls pressing against her.

“Oh, God!” he gasped. Then, “Belle.” 

Her breath was coming in shallow snatches, panting in time with the rhythm of their lovemaking, and she moaned, “Don’t stop,” as she pressed her head back against the pillows, “Please, don’t stop.”

She was close, and she could tell from the trembling in his arms and the look of near bliss on his face that he, too, was hanging on the moment with her, until with a cry, she burst around him and he let out a primal moan as he lost himself inside her, each beat of his heart pulsing hot, thick seed into her. She pulsed and trembled around him, milking every precious drop. Until he sank down onto her, and held her close, tight, breathless together as they each began to calm.

Still shaking he eased from her, drawing her with him to nestle her into his side as though he didn’t want to let her go, and she clung to him, still breathless, still pulsing, still feeling all of him as he held her close, leaned his head down to take her lips gently, softly, in a sweet and tender kiss.

* * *

He reached down to draw up the covers over their sweat drenched bodies as they slowly caught their breath. He had never known _anyone_ like her. It was as though she knew every inch of him, and he of her, and together they were only one whole being - lost apart. His throat felt tight with unshed tears that he couldn’t explain. He swallowed hard, swallowed them down.

“Are you all right, sweetheart?” he murmured softly, pressing another soft kiss to her forehead as she rested against his shoulder. 

She shifted against him. “Yes,” she whispered, “Better than all right.”

He chuckled softly, and she looked up at him then, an expression he couldn’t quite fathom on her face, and he raised an eyebrow in query.

She shook her head, but he pressed gently, “What?”

“It’s just…” she swallowed hard. “I wondered if it was short for something, or if it is really just Ken. Your name, I mean.”

“Kendrick,” he said, reaching up to run his fingers through her hair, and smooth it back from her face. “It’s short for Kendrick.”

“Kendrick Weaver,” she murmured his full name, and he suddenly felt as though his entire life, past and future were somehow being drawn together in the woman by his side.

“It suits you,” she said, after many long moments of silence, and settled herself against him again, safe in his arms.


End file.
